A Fowl Christmastide Read online

  A Fowl Christmastide: Third Day of Christmas

  12 Days of Christmas

  Sandra Sookoo

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author. Likenesses of characters to anyone living or dead is strictly a coincidence.

  A FOWL CHRISTMASTIDE: THIRD DAY OF CHRISTMAS © 2020 by Sandra Sookoo

  Published by New Independence Books

  ISBN-9781393185932

  Contact Information:

  [email protected]

  [email protected]

  Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com

  Book Cover Design by The Midnight Muse

  https://midnightmusedesigns.com/site2/

  Publishing History:

  First Digital Edition, 2020

  Dedication

  To Kristin and Sophia. Thanks for making the world brighter because you’re in it.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  The End

  Chapter One

  Regency-era stories by Sandra Sookoo

  Author Bio

  Stay in Touch

  Blurb

  Sometimes the best things start with a fowl beginning.

  Miss Isabelle Fletcher has one joy in life—her three French hens. Since they were a gift from a visiting countess, she treats them like pets, but they’re recalcitrant and nothing but trouble, especially when they escape to bother her nearest neighbor—the handsome and shy Baron Hastings.

  Evan Nicholas Radcliff has no time for such silly things as the annoying hens that interrupt his work. He’s on a tight deadline and can’t keep humoring his pretty, curious neighbor or her wild flock. Except he secretly lives for those brief meetings. He’d woo her if only he could summon the courage.

  With Christmas Eve upon them and the hens once more in the wind, Isabelle and Nicholas are thrown together due to a large misunderstanding that starts a long overdue conversation. What might have begun as a fowl Christmastide has the potential to turn into a happily ever after.

  Chapter One

  Christmas Eve morning, 1818

  Hillmorton, County of Warwick, England

  Miss Isabelle Fletcher—Belle to everyone who’d every known her—carried a bowl of cracked, dried corn outside the rectory and into the garden. Her breath clouded about her head in the chilly air, and with every step she took, newly fallen snow crunched beneath the soles of her half boots. The majesty of winter was certainly in evidence.

  “Good morning, girls. Come for breakfast.” She clicked her tongue, for the three French hens were usually prompt for the morning feeding. When a suspicious silence met her ears, Belle moved over to the cozy coop where the hens liked to bed down in the copious amounts of straw that filled the dark interior. As she peeked inside, her stomach dropped into the toes of her boots. The hens were gone. “Drat.”

  In vain she glanced about the garden, but there was no trace of the vanished fowl. Cold foreboding circled through her insides, for she knew where the recalcitrant birds had gone. The same place they always did when they escaped... Hastings Hall. It was the home of the angry baron, and the man she had no choice but to call upon once a day to retrieve her wanderlust-struck hens. And every day she received a lecture on her inability to keep her property in line.

  With a sigh, she scattered the corn over the ground and then cast a glance toward the baron’s manor house. Two fields and a meadow separated his estate from her father’s rectory, and if she squinted, the snow-covered rooftops of his home came into view. Thanks to the baron’s generosity, her father had a living, which meant she shouldn’t willingly antagonize said gentleman, but oh, how he deserved a dressing down! It wasn’t her fault the hens had a mind of their own. Perhaps they’d been struck with wanderlust or merely needed a change of scenery.

  How I can empathize.

  “There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to go over there. Again.” She tucked the empty bowl beneath her arm and headed back into the manse. “I’ll have to talk with the baron. Again.” As she pushed open the kitchen door and entered the blessed warmth of the house, she sighed once more, but for an entirely different reason. “And I’ll have to endure his angry tirade about how much he hates my hens. Again,” she told the empty room.

  Yet, there was a certain anticipation in the need to retrieve those birds, for though the baron had a habit of souring the day, she couldn’t help the fact that every time she found herself in his company, certain feelings washed over her she’d never experienced from any of the men in the village.

  “I heard that sigh all the way in my study.” Her father came into the kitchen just as she placed her empty bowl in the cupboard where she kept supplies for her hens. “What ails you? It’s Christmas Eve, the start of the season of miracles. There should be no maudlin thoughts to mar the moment.”

  “Oh, it’s the same problem, merely a different day, Papa.” She smiled at her parent, noting his mussed dark hair that stuck up at weird angles, for he had a habit of running his fingers through it when writing a sermon. He’d never seemed to acclimate to his long angular body. Because of this, he appeared as all limbs at times, except when he donned his best dark suit each Sunday morning. But he was as jovial and happy as any man of the cloth should be, and he truly cared about everyone in his small flock.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I gather the hens have escaped?” When he set the kettle onto the stove, he glanced at her. “We really should devise a way of keeping them in the garden.”

  “I don’t wish to keep them under lock and key.” They’d been a gift from a visiting countess three years before. Due to their impressive pedigree and their pretty coloring, Belle rather suspected she treated me as pampered pets instead of laying hens. “They’re not bad birds. They just enjoy exploring is all. Even if we installed a fence or wall, they would merely fly over.” She whisked off the apron she wore when working about the house or looking after Rachel—her older sister’s—children. When she hung the garment on a peg behind her, she frowned. “However, I do wish they’d choose a different destination than Baron Hasting’s manor.”

  When her father grinned, it was as if the world was immediately a better place. He always had that effect. “You don’t care for our nearest neighbor?”

  “Define care,” she hedged.

  “I would have thought by now you and he would be friends. Those hens of yours have been going over there for nigh onto two years.” His lips quirked in the beginnings of a grin.

  “Two years. Has it been that long?” A trace of heat infused her cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s that he’s always angry. That is quite off putting.” Though the baron was a fairly young man for the area—most men she encountered in the small village were much older—and he was certainly handsome enough, she could never let herself fall for such a man. How long life would seem if one constantly harbored anger in his heart. “I simply don’t understand what he has to be so incensed about. My escaped hens notwithstanding.”

  “Perhaps there is a good reason for the emotion. I’ve had the opportunity to talk with him on a few occasions. There’s more there than you might think.” When he shrugged, it was as if an unseen hand jerked on the collar of his jacket. Her two other sisters had inherited his angular bone structure and height, but she took after her mama with a more rounded figure, God rest her soul these
past five years.

  “I think he shouldn’t come the crab over a few hens.” But that didn’t lessen the heat in her cheeks.

  “Sometimes men hide their true selves out of fear, embarrassment, or even as a sense of protection. I rather think we shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

  Is that what she’d been doing—judging him? “I do try, but you never see him when I retrieve the hens. He acts as if he’s been royally inconvenienced when they decide to congregate on his doorstep or in his garden. As if I’d trained them to do such a thing to aggravate him.”

  “You do have a wild imagination, I’ll give you.” Her father laughed. “Belle, listen. Try to see the other side of the situation. Why should the baron need suffer your hens when you can’t keep them where they belong? After a while, anyone would be a bit cross to find hens constantly on their doorstep.”

  “I suppose.” She shook her head, for the baron remained a puzzle. One she might wish to try and puzzle out... if he weren’t so crotchety. “My hens aren’t troublesome. They are curious. Perhaps they’re even bored here.” Belle frowned at her father as he removed the kettle and then poured the hot water into the china teapot that had been part of her mother’s trousseau. When that blue and white teapot made an appearance, all was right in the world. How odd, then, that she remained at sixes and sevens regarding the baron? “Why do you suppose he keeps himself hidden away in the country? I doubt he ever travels to London. Shouldn’t a man of his ilk wish to go about Town with his contemporaries or find a bride?” Which would be too bad, for she’d been enamored of him for at least a year. She couldn’t help it. “He’s quite handsome enough. Any woman would snap him right up, I’d imagine.”

  “There are as many reasons a man wouldn’t want to hang about London as there are men. It’s quite a noisy, dirty city.” He rummaged about the cupboards, and upon finding a tin of biscuits, he popped them onto a wooden tray with the teapot and a teacup.

  “But it’s this side of sinning to bury himself in that manor house when he’s got the looks that would take the beau monde by storm.” In her mind’s eye she saw his chestnut hair that might curl if he encouraged it, his rugged jaw made even more sculpted by his scowl, and his startling blue eyes that might be the exact color of what an ocean must look like when the sun shone upon it. “If only he wouldn’t come the crab all the time.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t, but that’s all you see.”

  “Pish posh.” Moving among the upper crust of the London ton was both a mystery and a dream to her. In all her nine and twenty years, she’d never seen the latest fashions except for in her monthly copies of La Belle Assemblée periodicals. She’d taken a subscription years ago, and that was when she’d asked everyone to call her Belle. It made her feel more sophisticated and glamorous than she truly was. “London must be exciting a little bit, though.”

  “That largely depends on a person’s mindset,” her father murmured as he tinkered with the teapot.

  “Perhaps.” Neither had she known the joy of what it must feel like to dance at Almacks or have an iced confection at Gunter’s—outings she’d only read about in her father’s copies of The Times. To say nothing of what it must feel like to attend a lavish society affair while clad in luxurious fabrics. No, her life had been spent keeping her father’s house once her mother died and playing nursemaid or governess to Rachel’s children depending upon their needs. Lord knew her brother-in-law’s butcher shop didn’t bring in enough coin to recommend hiring help.

  Her middle sister, Cassandra, had married the man of her heart. He was a soldier and had returned from the wars with a missing arm. He now had less to his name than when he’d left to fight Boney, but her sister loved him fiercely. She didn’t care about the sacrifice. Any additional funding that came into her father’s keeping went to Cassandra to keep her tiny household afloat. Soon she would welcome her first child.

  Starting a family was something else Belle had never known; probably never would, for matrimonial prospects at this point in her life had long ago slipped away.

  “Life really hasn’t turned out as I’d hoped as a young girl,” she whispered to herself. But oh, how she would have liked to hold her own babe in her arms. As silence met her statement, she gasped and came out of her wayward thoughts. Her cheeks heated when she glanced at her father and he flashed her a knowing look. “I beg your pardon, I was woolgathering. What were we talking about?”

  “Baron Hastings,” her father said with a grin.

  “Ah, yes. He’s handsome and wouldn’t have issue with attracting a baroness. Perhaps someone needs to encourage him to spread his wings, so he’ll fly back to Town. Then he wouldn’t cause havoc in my life.”

  “Are you interested in the baron for yourself, Belle?” Her father’s expression sobered. “I realize your life isn’t an ideal one, and I’m the one to blame. I don’t have the coin to help matters along, and the years have slipped away from you without a match—”

  “Stop, please. I had love once. Perhaps it was enough.” Belle held up a hand as embarrassment added more heat to her face. Five years ago, she was engaged to a solider from the same regiment as Cassandra’s husband. She’d accepted his suit and waved to him as he’d left for war... but he’d never come home. In fact, he perished in the first battle he’d joined.

  That was the end of her dreams of the future.

  Except she persisted in dreaming about the baron from time to time. As if someone like him would look twice at someone like me in a romantic capacity.

  “You’re allowed to find love again,” her father said quietly.

  “I’ve long ago accepted I’m on the shelf and only useful for what I can do in someone else’s household.” Quickly, she busied herself with pulling a cloak from another peg and settling it around her shoulders. Did it bother her that she still wasn’t wed and playing with babies of her own? At times. Did she want to have a husband to look after and spend time with and know what a proper kiss felt like instead of a chaste peck to the cheek? Of course. Any woman would. However, she was also practical enough to see the options just weren’t there for her in a village so small, especially after the war had taken so many male lives. None of it negated the bouts of loneliness she battled with even when surrounded by her family. “My existence is a good one. Some women have it much worse than me.”

  And that was the truth of it. No sense dwelling on what could have been.

  Softly, her father cleared his throat. “Regarding the baron...”

  “Yes?” It was time to set aside her maudlin thoughts and go do what needed to be done. Belle turned and met his twinkling brown eyes. She took after him in that regard. “Do you have a message for him? I must go and retrieve the hens before he does something drastic, like try to sell them.” She gasped. “Or cook them!” Surely not even the baron would dare that.

  “Calm yourself. He’s not going to do anything so drastic.”

  “You don’t know him,” she countered with worry hanging in her voice.

  “Neither do you, so give him the benefit of the doubt. There might be other things at play in his life that he either hasn’t overcome or he struggles with behind closed doors.” He pointed to a tray of fruit tarts she’d baked yesterday. “Take him one of those as a Christmas gift. It’s been my experience that men always soften at the sight of food.”

  She snorted. “The baron is never happy to see me, and I doubt a fruit tart will help matters.”

  “Take one anyway, child, and perhaps a miracle will accompany you.”

  Excitement and dread both twisted down her spine to knot in her stomach. “Very well.” But she shook her head. “Would you like to come with me? You could personally invite the baron to your service tonight.” Then he’d see for himself just how unpleasant the man was.

  “I must decline. There are still a few points I’m tweaking in my sermon.” He hefted the tea tray, complete with a fruit tart. “Extend an invitation for me.”

  “Have a productive morning
.” Belle smoothed her hands over her blonde hair, tucking in any escaped tendrils. It wouldn’t do to appear on the baron’s doorstep looking a mess. “I’ll make the bread when I return.”

  “Look for the good, Belle. Remember that. It’s always there.” Her father hummed one of his favorite hymns as he took his repast back to his study.

  When she was once more alone, she heaved a sigh as she placed the hood of her serviceable black cloak on her head. The sooner she retrieved her hens the sooner she could come home and be well away from the grouchy attitude of the baron’s.

  What had he to be surly about? It was Christmastide. Shouldn’t all mankind at least try to find a spark of happiness?

  Chapter Two

  Evan Nicholas Radcliff, the Baron Hastings, glanced out his bedroom window. “Devil take it!” In his agitation, he made an error while knotting his cravat, forcing him to pull it out and start over with more concentration. “Those damned hens are in my garden again.”

  From the other window in the room, his younger brother Fredrick grinned and pressed his palms against the glass. “Miss Fletcher will come now.” Due to circumstances beyond his control, Freddy was a permanent resident at Hastings Hall, for he needed constant care. It was one of the reasons they had chosen to come to the country from London.

  “No doubt she will.” Nick—as everyone called him because he detested his given name—slowed the speed of his fingers and focused on the cravat’s knot once again, using his reflection in the window glass as a guide. “She comes every deuced morning to retrieve those bloody hens.” Why couldn’t his nearest neighbor take better care of her errant fowl? Fear and worry crept into his chest like twin tormentors. If the hens were here, that meant she would soon be too... and that meant he’d have no choice except to speak with her.

  One of these days, he’d make a right proper cake of himself because of it.

  “Are the hens hurt, Nick?” Concern hung on Freddy’s voice as he turned his head and stared with wide, almost vacant eyes. Though he had the body of a man in his mid-twenties, his mental capacity was that of a child. Never would he be anything else.